


Pucker Up! (It's For Charity)

by editingatwork



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: AU, Charity Auctions, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-21
Updated: 2018-01-21
Packaged: 2019-03-04 18:20:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13370451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/editingatwork/pseuds/editingatwork
Summary: “I’ll kiss the winner for twenty seconds!”





	Pucker Up! (It's For Charity)

Sometimes, shit just comes out of Kent’s mouth.

“I’ll kiss the winner for twenty seconds!” he hollers into the mic, which does two things: one, it causes an abrupt silence to befall the charity bidders gathered in the auditorium, and two, it makes the Aces’ assistant PR rep go white and then smack her palm to her face.

But it also makes the bidding numbers on the giant overhead display rocket sky-high amid a sudden chaotic flurry of noise, so. There’s that. Throughout the crowd, heads are ducked over smartphones and fingers blur as people up their bids. Already the bidding total has jumped from five figures to six. Kent is going to focus on that instead of the fizzing in his stomach and the way his hands are going numb with sudden nerves.

He  _really_  hopes none of the rich, middle-aged and  _married_  women now eyeing him hungrily get the winning bid. If he ends up on stage with a woman whose husband is glaring up from the audience, he’s going to smooch her on the cheek and call it close enough.

But it quickly starts to look like the young up-and-coming model with legs for days sitting up front is going to have that honor, and Kent doubts she’ll settle for a chaste little peck. The bidding is almost closed and the announcer is asking if anyone else has any final bids. Kent checks the screen behind him: $105,000. Considering the time it took to get that high, he doubts anyone’s going to top that.

And then suddenly, literal seconds before the window closes, the number jumps: $200,000.

Kent’s jaw drops.

The announcer looks a little giddy with glee. “Uh, well folks, I think we have a new winner. Unless anyone else would like to bid?”

Nobody else does.  The model sits down, looking miffed.

“Then...” The announcer looks over at Kent, a clear question on his face. The Aces’ PR woman is flapping her hand at him in resigned exasperation, a clear  _do whatever you want, we’ll roll with it._

Well, he did promise. He takes the mic again. “You bring the lips, I’ll bring the chapstick, babe!”

The PR woman sighs and covers her face again.

Kent scans the crowd, expecting—well, a woman. But the person coming up the steps to the stage is, unless self-identified otherwise, definitely a man.

A tall man, with shoulders like a cliff and thighs thick enough to make Kent’s mouth water. Yet the smile he gives Kent is bashful, a crinkly-eyed apology that’s still smug about his win. That alone makes Kent like him, without even knowing his name.

Already, the crowd—half-drunk on champagne and the sting of defeat—are hooting and cat-calling them.

“So, where is chapstick?” asks the bidding winner. His voice is deep and friendly.

Kent laughs, half in amusement, half with nerves. “I was mostly joking.”

“Joke about kiss, too?” the man asks, and before Kent can sputter a response, he adds, “Because is okay, just kiss hand or cheek. Don’t want you uncomfortable. I wasn’t going bid again, after first, but then you make challenge. I’m hate lose, you know?” He winks, over-exaggerated and endearingly genuine.

And what’s funny is that Kent  _does_  know. He hates losing, too. “Yeah,” he agrees. “And I wasn’t joking, about the kiss. You really want it?”

The man’s smile grows to giddy proportions. “Really twenty seconds?”

Kent looks back over his shoulder at the announcer, who is watching them both like he’s witnessing gossip rag history unfold. “Hey, man, keep count for me, will you?” Then he turns back to the bidding winner—who, upon close inspection, has a nice strong jaw and an excitingly generous mouth—and helps the man put both hands on Kent’s hips. “Impress me,” he says.

There’s a laugh, a puff of warm breath on Kent’s cheek, a small mumble of, “Don’t need twenty seconds for impress,” and then Kent is being kissed.

Softly, sweetly, close-mouthed, no tongue. It’s far from perfunctory, but it is polite. It takes no liberties except for the agreed-upon press of lips. And at first that’s fine, until the announcer and the crowd are chanting, “Ten! Eleven! Twelve!” and Kent’s sides are tingling from being held, his jaw aching to open and invite this man inside. Every soft whiff of breath, every shift of tender skin on tender skin, it peels back another of his layers, and when he opens his eyes again, his gaze meets deep brown.

Then, suddenly, the hands on his sides slip up his shoulder blades and the kiss urges him backwards—the man is  _dipping_  Kent, still kissing him, and Kent’s hands come up to clutch at expensive suit jacket out of instinct.

“Nineteen! Twenty!”

Kent lets himself be pulled upright. His heart is hammering and his face is probably flushed. He feels like he just got wooed in slow-motion via lip-lock.

“You impress?” the man asks, which would sound more suave if his cheeks weren’t pink.

Somewhere in the background, the crowd is going wild. Kent guesses that videos and photos are already flooding Twitter. He licks his lips. “Not bad,” he replies, which would probably come off more unruffled if his hands weren’t still balled in the man’s clothes. He lets go and steps back.

The announcer comes up to them and pats Kent on the shoulder while addressing the crowd. “And  _that_ , folks, is how we raise money for charity! Whoo boy. Well, sir,” he adds, addressing the bidding winner, “would you say you got your money’s worth, Mr...?” He holds out the mic for a response.

“My name Alexei Mashkov,” the man says. “And I just glad support good cause. But... yes.” He smiles at Kent. “Think I get what I pay for.”

The crowd laughs and cat-calls some more.

The announcer laughs, then turns back to Kent. “How about you, Mr. Parson?”

Kent pulls the mic to himself and winks at the nearest smartphone camera. “I’m always ready to pucker up for charity!”

Which is, of course, the quote that gets spread around every news site and social media feed within twenty-four hours. 

Kent can’t hide from it in his apartment; he’s got a photo shoot for a sponsor’s ad the next day, and after that he heads to a local practice rink to show up “unexpectedly” at the Junior Aces practice. Fortunately for him, everyone at the photo shoot is professional enough not to do more than a little friendly ribbing about the charity kiss. The kids at the hockey practice aren’t old enough to have Twitter accounts, and therefore remain blissfully ignorant. Kent puts his phone on silent and ignores the Aces group chat (which he already made the mistake of checking this morning—Jesus Christ, his friends have no filter). So he gets to enjoy looking hot for the camera and being a dork for a bunch of excited, idol-worshiping ten-year-olds, and not think about what’ll get asked the next time he’s in a media scrum.

Playing with the kids helps a lot. Kids are ridiculous and hilarious without meaning to be. When the practice ends and Kent has finished up taking pictures and signing most of the equipment, he waves to the team as he skates backwards off the ice.

He’s not even out of his skates yet when the PR assistant finds him.

Kent is ready to be asked to a meeting, or given a new appointment for his already busy schedule. Instead, he gets a Post-It note handed to him.

“We got an email  _and_  a phone call to the PR office,” she says, and she looks... smug? “The ball’s in your court, so, be smart about it. But if it becomes a ‘thing’, just let us know.” With that, she leaves.

The Post-It has a phone number on it, nothing else. The area code is not for Vegas.

Kent calls.

It’s  _almost_  not a surprise when a familiar voice answers. “Hello, this is Alexei Mashkov. May I ask who is calling?”

Grinning, Kent replies, “Hi, you might remember me. I’m the most expensive twenty seconds of your life.”

There’s a pause, and then laughter. “Yes, you  _most_  expensive. I play so many games in Vegas, but I never lose so much money so fast before.”

“Well, it’s like you said. It was for a good cause.”

“Yes, good cause.” There’s a sound of tongue over lips, and—unless Kent is imagining it—the sigh of a leather sofa as a body settles into it. “Thank you for call.”

“Thanks for leaving your number with the Aces PR,” Kent replies. “Can I, uh, ask _why_ you left your phone number with the Aces PR?”

Another wet sound too close to the mic. It wouldn’t be erotic if Kent didn’t already know how this man’s mouth  _feels_. Mr. Mashkov says, “If I’m make you uncomfortable, is okay for you say, but—I think, was nice to meet you. I’m think, maybe I like to meet you again, have dinner? I’m stay Vegas until next week.”

Kent is sitting on empty bleachers grinning ear-to-ear at an empty rink. “Yeah,” he says. “That’d be really nice.”

**Author's Note:**

> i'm on [tumblr](http://punmasterkentparson.tumblr.com/).


End file.
